You’ve heard it said that to be queer in this country
is to be a nocturne played on the precipice of morning.
You’re up all night, listening. God playing the gunshots
or the fireworks, your choice. So many choices, for you, for me
America is about choices. You get to make one or two of them.
The boy in the passenger side. The absence of boy. The absence
of the passenger side. Your dad’s diesel split in half now, like a tangerine,
the two halves racing in opposite directions. Look, and it’s you.
Look at the sky and it’s fireworks. Look at yourself and it’s bullets. Look at the moon and
no more moon. The record skips, the white disc suddenly thrown off the platter
then shattering at your feet: an explosion of light. Quick, sing something.
The sun is shining.
